[M4F] Who needs girlfriends when I've got a (trashy) mom like you? All it took was giving you an allowance and you became my personal slut. (Detailed Prompt Inside. Mid to Long Term)

I am 18+ and all participants and characters must be 18+

Alright, this is going to be long. But, you're going to get horny or at least be mildly entertained. So, give it a chance.

I’m looking to find someone who wants join me in writing something a little stupid, orgasm inducing, very fucking wrong and way more fun than it has any right to be.

Here is the set up:

I’m the twenty one-year-old tech billionaire: chubby, anxious, virginal, full of caffeine, probably wearing a hoodie that costs more than your car and still somehow looks like I sleep in it. Some freak invention of mine got bought, licensed, or worshipped by one of the big tech monsters, and now I’m sitting on obscene money with questionable social skills and a browser history that's going to send me to hell.

Then you crawl back into my life.

My estranged mother. Trashy, hot, shameless, broke, dressed like my browser history, and very suddenly interested in reconnecting once my face is on Fortune. You come in with the hugs, the fake tears, the low-cut top, the rent emergency, the “honey, I missed you” routine except the nerd you’re trying to milk is lonely, filthy-minded, and just degenerate enough to start wondering what else that allowance can buy.

That’s the hook. From there, I want this to turn into a nasty little ongoing arrangement: money, manipulation, sexual “lessons,” power shifting back and forth, no-good choices becoming routine, a dumb boyfriend at home who has no idea, and the two of us building the world’s worst domestic rhythm around it. I want the absurdity. I want the comedy. I want the “we are both going to hell but at least the view is nice” energy.

Sure, it's going to have a lot of smut. But, I'm not looking for just the boring, vanilla smut. I want buildup, banter, teasing, escalation, recurring scenes, filthy little slice-of-life beats, jealousy, denial, bargaining, and all the ugly-hot logic that makes the whole thing feel like a deranged porn with a budget. If you like playing characters who are greedy, conflicted, shameless, needy, manipulative, or way too eager once the line gets crossed, you’ll probably have fun here.

The prompt below is the tone sample. If you read it and went, “oh no, this is exactly my kind of garbage,” then message me. Please bring more than “hey” or “wanna rp?” Tell me what you liked, what you want to add, what your version of the mother would be like, or what awful little situations you want to throw them into.

The Prompt/Writing Sample:

I was on Fortune magazine by twenty years old. I had the classic look. Hoodie, glasses, chubby because my billions was made by a body that was engineered by Crunchwrap Supremes, warm Mountain Dew, white Monsters, and the kind of sleep schedule that makes doctors sigh. Ten figures in checking, zero chicks, and the posture of a shrimp.

The article dropped, and suddenly every scammer, influencer, crypto widow, failed actress, “wellness founder,” and girl who called me weird remembered my name. Fine. Expected.

I just didn’t expect you.

My mother. Biologically, sure. You disappeared in the beginning then reappeared at my penthouse at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday.

I opened the door and briefly forgot what doors were for.

Tiny denim shorts, pink g-string riding high enough to file taxes separately, white tank cut so low it was basically a bib for bad decisions. No bra, because well you had those bolt-ons. Glossy lips, giant wet eyes, and that little gold cross drowning between two silicone tits, unironically. Five-inch nude patent peep-toe platforms, polished toes squeezed forward, every step going click-click-click like a cash register about to do something evil.

You hugged me first, obviously. Full tit-smother reunion package, coconut perfume in my nose, acrylic nails scraping my shoulder while you called me honey like you hadn’t speedrun abandoning me.

It took you 2 days. Only 2 fucking days. Sure, you kept on changing your outfits. Sluttier. More heels (thank god). But then came the rent story. Two grand (lol). I paid it.

Not because I was generous. Because I was twenty, untouched, and my brain had been slow-cooked in porn, caffeine, and loneliness since forever. You kissed too close to my mouth when you left, and I spent the next three days pacing my penthouse like a zoo animal with Wi-Fi.

When you came back asking for more, I finally did the math no therapist wants to hear. If money bought hugs, maybe more money bought worse things.

So I told you I’d never really kissed anyone.

You did not recoil. You did not rediscover motherhood. You smiled like a slot machine had just coughed up rent money and stepped in close.

“Oh, honey,” you said, gloss already shining. “Mommy can help with that.”

Then you kissed me like you were trying to win a custody battle in hell. Tongue immediately, nails in my hair, tits crushing my chest while I stood there hard, stupid, and spiritually unsupervised. When you pulled back, my chin was shiny and my soul had left a forwarding address.

“Anything else you need to learn?”

That sentence should be carved into the asteroid that wipes us out. But the problem was you said that to the wrong virgin 21 year old. I dont think you expected me to say anything else. But, surprise bitches, I did.

I asked to see your tits; you had them out before I finished stuttering. I asked about your feet because the internet had turned my brain into soup; you slid out of those platforms, wrapped your pedicured toes around me, and made me cum so fast NASA probably logged it. You laughed, wiped it off your arch, then licked your thumb like this was a normal mother-son bonding activity and not a felony committed by Looney Tunes characters.

Then I asked if I could put my mouth on you. You made me say where, because apparently hell has captcha prompts. When I did, you turned around on my couch, tugged that g-string down, kept the heels close because you’d clocked my idiot stare and high heel fetish, and pushed your ass back.

I ate you like a man trying to unlock an achievement. No skill, all hustle. You came twice, shaking into the cushions and calling me filthy names while I tried not to suffocate in the worst possible family memory. Afterward you admitted nobody had ever done that for you before, not even Kyle.

Oh fuck, that's right. Kyle.

Kyle, your boyfriend. Discount mechanic, neck tattoo, gas-station opinions, anti-vaxer, election denial, piece of shit probably at home microwaving burritos while his girlfriend was in my penthouse getting her ass eaten by the son she abandoned for allowance money. Every detail made it worse, which made it hotter, which means I am being launched into the lake of fire by trebuchet.

After that, you stopped pretending this was just a shakedown. You started showing up with worse outfits and better excuses, calling Kyle from my bathroom to say work was running late while your lipstick was on my stomach. You brought heels, makeup, a toothbrush, the rest we just bought.

The first time we fucked, you climbed onto me in nude platforms, cross bouncing between your tits, and whispered that Mommy wanted to be my first. You told me I could cum inside, told me it would be our little secret, and my virgin brain folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane. I lasted maybe thirty seconds. You kept me buried there afterward, warm and smug, smiling like you had just invented the worst retirement plan in human history.

We made a rule. Or maybe I paid you for it. Or you decided on your own. Fuck, I can't remember. No condoms, ever. Every load stayed in you until I said otherwise. You’d ask where it belonged, make me answer, then walk around my place full of me like it was a designer purse. Sometimes you’d stand in front of the mirror and show me the mess later.

The whole thing became this twisted slice-of-life sitcom for people who deserve hell. You’d show up Tuesday, then Thursday, then “just for lunch,” then at midnight because Kyle was asleep. I took you to one corporate retreat as my “date,” and you smiled at investors in a tight dress with one heel dangling under the table while everyone politely pretended they all weren't getting hard.

Kyle never caught on. He thought you were working doubles. Meanwhile, the earrings I bought cost more than his truck, your nails were paid for by my bad decisions, and sometimes I sent you home unwashed just to make reality uglier. Once he told you that you tasted different lately, and you called me from his bathroom laughing so hard you could barely breathe.

Eventually we made the allowance official. Monthly wire. Dress code. Availability. No panties at my place. No talking about girlfriends, because you had already spent weeks purring that I didn’t need some girl my age when Mommy handled everything.

You listened in a tight bandage dress, nude slingback dangling from your toes, then smiled like the devil’s favorite coupon and uncrossed your legs.

“Okay, Daddy.”

Sweet deal, right?

***

Now that you made it here, a quick tidbits about me.

I am looking for those who tend to be on the lengthier side of posting. Myself, I tend to post multi para, and the count can range between 300 - 600 words. I can go higher, but rarely lower. Of course, obviously there are some scenes that'll be much lower for the sake of transition and our pacing. But generally speaking, I'm looking for someone who shares the same enthusiasm for long(er) posts.

We're going a bit non-traditional, I'm going to play (at first) that nerdy, chubby, but big cocked son of yours. I may even be a bit ugly, and despite my inexperience, that doesn't stop my eagerness to live out my flesh fantasies with you.

For you, there are plenty of cliches and stereotypes to build out. Trailer trash, ghetto, the toxic latina MILF - plenty!

If you couldn't tell, I'm into heels. So if you're not, we're probably not going to be a good-fit. I am not expecting you to spoon feed my character, nor be the dom. I love shifting power dynamics, and exploring how we can having a dynamic relationship, in regards to that.

Kinks:

High Heels (major focus) - Platform peep-toe heels, strappy stilettos, wedges (all typically 4 to 5 inches), detailed descriptions of toe cleavage, arches, how they change posture/stance.

Outfit Play - Costumes ranging from slutty roleplay outfits (nurse, schoolgirl, etc.) to latex bodysuits, lingerie, cosplay, anything from casual-sexy to outright depraved

Seduction - The slow burn, the corruption, the gradual boundary erosion

Edging - It's going to be non-stop. I want you sore. Almost miserable, and broken. So much so that even relief no longer alleviates the hunger, you just need more.

Dirty Talk - Crude and raw (Breeding talk, cocksleeves, cum guzzlers, fuck toys, etc. )

Sexual Exhaustion - Marathon sessions, being drained

Corruption/Moral Decay - Good people succumbing to depravity, at a minimum.

Naivety/Ignorance - Engineering situations where characters convince themselves "it's fine"

Hentai/Porn Logic - Oversized cocks, constant leaking, excessive cum production, exaggerated arousal. To an extent, open to ranges.

More kinks - Size Difference, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism, Intelligence , Foot Play, Revenge, Risky Sex, Sneaking Around, Adultery, Oral ,Cum Play, Anal/Rimming, Multiple Partners, Taboo Locations, Sloppy Seconds, Control/Manipulation, Cheating

Limits: Violence, pregnancy, one-liners/short posts, straight to smut